Tale of Compassion

Suicide –

Homicidal isolation,

That wears the branches of the heart.

Ixtab keeps tabs,

On the chambers of the dark.

An idea, a knot

When the world shuts on the breath.

Drags you into seas,

Promising more: Sleep –

Hibernation –

It said they would weep no more.

Yaxche Tree.

Or Aokigahara,

The places where suicide freeze –

Peering out,

From the cusp of a funnel,

That trickles into dark waters.

Breath clasped on scars,

A wheeze, a cry.

Now, here is the rest.

A green door,

An ancient promise.

If possible,

I hope these words funnel through.

This pallet is for you.

This love is for you,

These words are for you.

If you can’t find them,

We’ll bring them to you.

Make our own legends.

Write our own myths.

The branches of my heart reach out.

Spreading love to all.

                                                                                                 Tale of Compassion by Christian Gould

Vote by Christian Gould

Launched into a ballad of song:

My song of validation,

Paints the world in blue.

Clouds of darkness break apart,

Here comes the sun.

Shakaru unlatches her lips,

And the words ring true.

She laughs:

Her beams of light dancing through sky.

Leave it to her to make the world bright.

Light painted through blue.

White clouds make way,

For a red flame:

Now, light the beacons.

Cast your cards,

Into the deck: now is the time,

To resurrect a voice.

                                                                                                Vote by Christian Gould

We Do Not Live In Terror by Christian Gould

Leave your body at the door.

Wield the golden chalice; our spirits,

Soft like candlelight filling any void

Left over from Orlando’s tragedy.

Let our spirits drink the life granted,

Golden platelets shifting from start to start;

Remember those who shed their bodies,

To become sparks of heaven to cover our heads,

With a crown of safe harbor.

Finding a light through the darkness;

They thought they were safe, living in the light,

And they lived well.

We are all souls, our safety is sacred.

Aglow, why should we fear the dark?

We are not helpless, we deserve to live,

To live well without fear of death;

Or worse: to be helpless, to be hopeless.

Orlando’s sunshine will break through the darkness.

The sun still rises and sets,

And so will we, ablaze in life’s candle flame.

Let the petals of hope open,

Like a door to a sacred spring,

For deep down, darkness is ashamed of itself,

It finds nothing but the ruin it creates.

Those who have fallen, not just in Orlando,

But in Paris, in 9/11, in every tragedy,

They remain alive in our hearts:

I think they watch us, cheering us on from beyond,

Saying: Do what you can,

This is the moment,

someone’s moment was filled with fear:

Fear without cause, or reason,

These are our moments, our lives.

Combat this with the weight of our words,

Our action - together we are THE GENERATION,

Young or old - And someone who kills is a shell,

Waiting to be cracked; there is no divide,

People have died, people keep dying!

We are not fragments - the past becomes our present,

And at present we don’t need permission to live.

Because look at us, at what we make ---

No tragedy can take our spirits,

Or our memories, our smiles,

Our tears: we say, no more death,

No more needless violence!

And why? Because we are the life,

The killers do not have, we were born into liberty,

And they want to take it.

Let us fight for it,

Our voices are the key to the gateway of eternity,

Limit is not our aim.

We will not give in, we are not helpless.

I am only one voice, but I know my strength,

And we make each other stronger.

Liberty is a poetry all of us can taste.

This is to Orlando, to Paris, to all of those lost.

Let us honor the memories and cherish them.

But we are not afraid,

The world is too beautiful, too vibrant.

We are not going to live in fear,

We are too pure for that.

We Do Not Live In Terror: by Christian Gould

How Dull by Christian Gould

How dull.

Fruit without stem,

Branch, or root.

To tell the heart it is full.

To guide it like candle light,

In the night sky.

Although mine shimmers,

With stars, I cannot -

Cannot -  be the only spark.

Reach my heart with the vine,

This is my life, sacred, divine,

Spaces holy in mind,

Rushing river, do not,

Pull me away.

I shall not bite into wrath this day.

The circle is cast.

If love is a ritual, then I,

Am forever gone.

Shimmering fool, too bright ---

Your love is a universe.

It spins on the axis of heel,

Rushing down to the head;

The flakes of alone withering,

In the wind, blown apart.

The kind of love that peers down,

Yet looks up at a mass of untamed,

Blaze, soft yet fierce ---

Love, this is us.

Honed to a spike.

Yet the missing pieces to a whole.

Together. Fruit, the branch, the stem,

The root drinking from the heart.

No detached dullness.

We cling to the element,

Even cold, even scorching.

We find the hidden door, and cross over ---

                                                                     How Dull by Christian Gould

The Act of Giving by Christian Gould

The tubes come with needles.

For my red, sacred rivulets,

A heart’s supply and this,

This is all that’s needed.

Open fistfuls of my life,

I share, for we are but air;

Moving in one giant gust,

So all are able to know,

The sky by name.

Crisp and fresh like,

Freshly fallen rain.

The clouds part with their residue,

Their saturation is spread to fields,

Of grain where grass grows.

Sky-high like the galaxy.

My name is a supply.

My spirit flies from my veins,

Like a sacred spring.

Walk on water!

Ha! A mere show, trivial!

Miracles come with bloodflow.

To turn hearts into thanks.

Hurt into health,

Harm into harmony.

The sacred spring.

We are only temporary,

But the act of giving is eternity.

The Act of Giving: by Christian Gould

A Promise Broken by Christian Gould

You do not puncture promise.
it is not some balloon,
filled with hot air.

It does not take off,
when I arrive. I do not,
crane my neck. My eyes do not search.

A ritual. The circle was made,
you left the blade at the altar,
spilled from our lives,

This sea of red, our hearts,
jointed together like ligaments and tendons.
Like hurt and happiness.

You do not puncture the hearts center.
Not when you promised the pitcher.
The elixir of eternity;

That bubbled and fizzed,
waiting to erupt as time,
folds, over timeless crackling.

Think - a promise,
broken does not decay,
it is as fresh,

As a promise fulfilled.
Petals would have spread from the heart,
had you kept yours.

But now those bees buzz in anger.
Nothing sweet about the nectar,
filling the liars breast.

That spill. That spill.
Was there something in your eye?
Here, let me pick it out!

You wretch! You're terrible,
too terrible. My tide doesn't,
fall for your petty tricks.

And I am livid,
The Queen of the nest,
sacred honeycomb of health.

My precious little pearls, all yellow,
buzzing around my heart,
to protect me from your spiked pain.

But promise is an opening,
straight for the valves pumping love,
in streams of burning blaze.

Yet - should I have known? -
You, who would pull back that promise,
unveiling the leeches that come.

Straight from the liars tongue.
To feast - a full heart, so full of,
what you lack, and even empty,

A drop of me carries more weight,
than your entire body, for I rise,
like the water in the sea.

So off, the leeches come,
one at a time,
And somehow I will find -

Promise in empty, your hollow,
only just shy, an inch from death,
but love, in my eyes,

You could already be a grave-marker.
For the Queen rises from her honey-comb,
to take back her prize.

That promise broken is worse than death.
It is the darkness of your mind. Hollow of your heart.
At least the dead have something to look forward too.

                                                                     A Promise Broken: by Christian Gould